


Finding Yourself

by ro_flix



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, M/M, Origin Story, References To Historical Racism, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:55:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25367953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ro_flix/pseuds/ro_flix
Summary: Multiple Chapter.As per the 'Through History' featurette, Nicolò di Genova and Yusuf Al-Kaysani meet in the 1099 siege of Jerusalem, on opposite sides of the Crusade. They cross swords in battle, and kill each other many times. Forced by circumstance to put their hatred aside, they find more in common that not. What becomes an unlikely friendship, grows into something a lot more by the time Andy and Quynh find them. (Paraphrased from the featurette).How Joe and Nicky meet and fall in love.“Nicolò.” His name, Yusuf guessed. He hesitated. He had so much fear. So much confusion. He looked down, and asked Allah for forgiveness. He gripped the Christian’s hand.“Yusuf,” he responded.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 83
Kudos: 363





	1. Chapter 1

Nicolo di Genova was in pain. He was starving, his bones pressing out against his skin. He was parched, each breath rattling through his throat. His feet were cracked and bloody. He was beginning to think that he was going to die soon, and could only pray that God would accept him if he died before the liberation of the Holy City. The heat pressed in on them from everywhere, choking them. Nicolo had seen countless men collapse and die in the past few days alone. He tried to stave off thoughts that this was hopeless. God would aid them when the time was right. Peter the Hermit had said so. Nicolo had been lucky to be close enough to catch his sermon, following their solemn march around the city - the cause of his bloody feet. He had fought down the rage as the infidels mocked and jeered at their procession from the city walls. They would learn. They would understand that there was one righteous Lord and Saviour and that they were damned. 

They had been camped outside Jerusalem for almost a month. There had not been much fighting since their first attempt at breaching the walls, which had been unsuccessful. Now they waited. Waited for assistance, waited for God. There had been a few skirmishes away from the city over water supplies, raids on passing merchant caravans. Nicolo had heard of fighting amongst their own ranks over the only remaining water source outside the city that the Saracens hadn’t poisoned. 

Without fighting to occupy his time, he prayed a lot, cared for his armour, and his sword. He knew that his time would come to prove himself. It came sooner than he thought. 

“Nicolo, we have orders, get ready!” Another knight, Francesco, called to him in Italian. “We ride to Jaffa to meet ships with supplies. Come!” Nicolo hastily ready himself, pulling his boots over his sore feet, and his armour on despite the heat, and took up his sword and shield. Fifty of them began to ride north to the port of Jaffa. Their role was to protect those supplies at all costs. Without them, there would be no siege towers, no chance of breaching the city. All the lives of good Christians who had made the pilgrimage would have been lost in vain. 

They were a few miles away when he felt a sense that something wasn’t right. On the plain of Ramleh, the first arrow struck a knight to his right, and the man fell from his horse. Count Geldemar Carpenel, their commander, yelled orders out to them, putting his knights and archers before his infantrymen to protect them. The infantry would be more important for helping with the supplies. Archers were falling to arrows even as they organised. He used his shield to protect himself as he maneuvered his horse with one hand and his knees. He prayed to God to give him strength to keep fighting, even though he could feel the weakness in his limbs. Another knight fell, arrow sticking through his eye. Nicolo suddenly became worried that he would vomit. The count ordered the charge, and sword out and eyes blazing, they rode towards the infidel attackers. 

They were close, when Nicolo’s horse took two arrows in quick succession. The horse reared, eyes rolling and shrieking in pain. Nicolo dismounted quickly and clumsily, fearing being caught under the horse's weight. The air was thick with dust thrown up by the horses and the smell of blood and the screams of dying men. Nicolo coughed through the haze and tried to see what was happening. He pushed forward, following the sounds of metal meeting metal, and the feral cries of the enemy. A man charged towards him, yelling. Nicolo hauled his sword up and swung, the tip of the blade hitting the collarbone of the assailant. Nicolo lunged forward and the blade skidded across the bone, driving into the man’s neck. He dislodged the sword, the man fell, and Nicolo looked for another target, finding a man already felled by his own army’s arrow, and driving the sword through his back. He spotted a third man, his clothes whipped by the wind, his face, his eyes, portraying rage and bloodlust, his long curved sword dripping with Christian blood. Nicolo found strength in his soul, and charged for him. 

Their blades met in the air with a sharp ring. Up close now, the man snarled at him, drawing the sword back and lunging in at Nicolo’s legs. Nicolo blocked him at the side, and tried to use the momentum to twist the blade out of the savage’s hand. The man sneered at him and pulled his sword away, grabbing Nicolo by the shoulder with a large, strong hand that dug into his thin flesh.. The move surprised Nicolo and he tried to think of how to react, what to do with his sword. That was when the man plunged his sword deep into Nicolo’s stomach. Suddenly Nicolo couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t move. There was only pain. Not the pain that he had been feeling of the heat, and the starving, but burning, icy pain. The man did not release him at first, locking eyes with him and smiling evilly.

“Allahu Akbar,” he said, pulling his sword from Nicolo, and wiping the blood on Nicolo’s trousers. Allah is greater.

“Yusef!” Somebody cried out. “Ladayhim taezizat!” They have reinforcements! The man finally released his strong grip on Nicolo’s shoulder, watching as Nicolo dropped to his knees for a moment, before turning and fleeing. Coward, Nicolo thought to himself, even as his vision grew black at the edges and he found that it was harder and harder to draw breath. He fell to the side, on the floor. The sounds of the battle still raged around him. He could just hear the beating of hooves. Had they sent more knights to their aid? He could sense that he was covered in his own blood, but even in the scalding sun, he was growing cold. It was ok, he knew he would be in heaven with the Lord now.

And Nicolo di Genova died. 

He awoke gasping, clawing at his stomach, trying to stop the sensation of his body pulling itself back together. He scrambled over onto his knees and vomited hard, his whole body heaving. He dragged off his chest plate, looking at the gaping hole in his tunic, and the unmarked skin beneath. And vomited again. 

“Nicolo!” He heard a familiar voice. Francesco called to him, and picked his way across the bodies to him. “Are you ok?” Francesco gripped his hand and helped him to his feet. 

“Sì,” Nicolo nodded, thought about it, and then repeated himself. Even though he had thrown up, his throat didn’t feel as raw anymore. His feet didn’t hurt as much. He picked his sword out of the dirt where he had dropped it when...when he had been stabbed in the gut? Francesco was looking at him strangely.

“Are you sure you’re ok?” He asked. Nicolo nodded.

“Did we win?” He asked, looked around the battlefield at all of the bodies. 

“Sì. They sent more knights. Most of the Saracens are dead. Some got away. We continue on to Jaffa. Your horse?”

“Gone,” Nicolo said, distracted, running his hand through his hair, absentmindedly touching the healed skin again.

“Ride with me my friend,” Franceso offered. “We fight on for the glory of God.”

They rode on to Jaffa and met the ships, and returned to the camp outside Jerusalem with some supplies, some reinforcements, and most importantly, wood, engineers, and slaves to build their siege weapons. The work began immediately, but as a knight who had been on the raid, for now he got to rest. He returned to his camp, but his mind was disquiet. 

He ripped off his boots, and examined his feet. They had been cracked, bruised and bleeding, and now were as before he left for the Holy Land. He pulled his tunic completely off, and the shirt underneath, and once again checked for any sign that a sword had travelled through his body, one side to the other. There was none. He felt sick again. 

He was certain that he had died. There was no alternative explanation, no question, no way he could have survived the injury that was inflicted upon him. Had the Lord rejected him from heaven? This couldn’t be hell, could it? He had woken up in the same place, the Crusade was unpleasant but it was a holy cause. Shouldn’t hell be worse than this? If this was hell, what was he being punished for? He had lived his life both as a priest and knight as a holy and righteous man. 

Had the Lord resurrected him? Why him? The Lord had resurrected his son made human. Christ had resurrected Lazarus. What had he done to earn the honour? Was this God giving him a mission? His head was spinning with so many questions - too many questions. He sat on thin blankets that made some semblance of bed, closed his eyes and pressed his hands into his face. All he could see was the face of the infidel that he had fought, that had killed him. The hatred and savagery in his eyes, in his grip, in his voice, in the language he didn’t understand. Was it his mission to end the life of this Arab?

Eventually Nicolo slept, but not well, and his dreams were filled with hazy images of fierce warrior women. The next day, still feeling unsettled, he volunteered to help build the siege weapons, with the slaves and the infantry and the pilgrims. He hauled wood and hauled ropes and pretended that he didn’t notice when splinters and rope burns seemed to vanish. As he worked, he found his eyes drifting to the walls of the city, just out of range of the Saracen ranged weapons. Was his killer there, watching them?

The day that the weapons were completed, their Commander gathered them together and gave them rousing speech about their duty. They had a mass, and prayed together for strength, courage, the Lord’s mercy on them, and his wrath on those who inhabited the Holy City. That night Nicolo did not sleep. He continued to pray in the tent that he shared with many others. He let himself think about what had happened to him, and what it could have meant. 

The next morning, before dawn broke, the forces gathered to prepare to attack. Nicolo di Genova grabbed his sword with intent, and a holy fire in his soul, and he was prepared to do whatever it took.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is the final days of the seige, and Yusuf does his best to defend the city. He encounters Nicolo in battle again and they fight, and fight, and fight, until they don't fight any more.

Yusuf Ibrahim Muhammad Al-Kaysani stood on the city walls with his comrades as they watched the siege weapons of the invaders approach from the north. They had had word that the same was happening to the south of the city. He absentmindedly checked for his sword by his side. The only thing that you could rely on in this world beyond Allah. 

The Christian assault began just before dawn, heralded by the monstrous crashes of the battering ram meeting the stone of the outer wall. The wall did not withstand the admittedly impressive engineering of the ram, and it crumbled shortly after the sun broke the horizon to the east. The air was now thick with the smell of pitch being hauled to the top of the inner wall. Despite the rain of arrows falling upon them, the so-called Crusaders fired flaming arrows at the straw that they had used to build up their defences. Suddenly the air was filled with the smell of pitch and thick black smoke. As the Europeans inched closer, using their shields to protect themselves, Yusuf and his men unleashed the feat of Egyptian chemistry - Greek fire. A masterful concoction of pitch and other, closely guarded, substances that created searing fire wherever it touched. They hurled pots of the stuff at the tower, at the soldiers below them. Although the soldiers burned, the tower seemed impervious. The ground beneath them was becoming more fire than earth, and yet still that tower got closer. They could hear the fierce cries of desperate, starving Christian soldiers, ready to kill them. Nervousness seemed to creep into the ranks. The smell of burning flesh joined the melting pot of the air.

They fought for most of the day, using the Greek fire, burning bales of hay and a sea of arrows to keep them at bay. Smoke stung their eyes and choked their throats. Yusuf’s fingers and hands were burned and damaged from fire and firing arrow after arrow. As the day passed, the Christians had to use more and more liquid to quench the flames on their tower, which delayed them each time. They all knew that they had limited water supplies outside of the city. Yusuf himself had been part of the teams that had poisoned and filled in the wells. If they could hold out long enough, the Christians would have to retreat or risk their entire water supply. 

As the tower got closer, they took thick ropes, and attempted to lasso the tower, in order to topple it into the wall, to destroy it and trap those inside. Knights mounted the top of the tower, some using their shields to protect, whilst others cut the ropes.

Night fell again, but fires still raged below, and there was no dark, no peace. Yusuf helped to haul huge timbers up to the city walls, which would be secured to prevent the tower reaching close enough to the wall. This further shredded the damaged skin on his hands, and bruised his arms and shoulders. It didn’t matter to him. They would repel the invaders at any cost. If that cost included his life, then he would be rewarded. 

It was morning on the Friday. There was no time for prayers that day, only for battle. He was below the wall, ready to take up post again, taking a moment to rest his tired legs, arms, eyes. Someone offered him a skin of water, and he took it gratefully, quenching his thirst and washing the smoke and grit that he could feel lining his throat. He ran the rest over his head, slicking his hair out of his face and wiping down his face and hands. As he did, he quietly spoke to Allah, asking for strength and courage. 

The cries from the top of the wall suddenly hit a different tone. The Europeans had breached. Bodies began to fall from the wall around Yusuf as the Christan knights escaped their tower onto the inner wall of the city. Yusuf took a deep breath, and drew his sword. This changed everything. His duty now was to protect the people. Yusuf drew back until he met other soldiers preparing for the onslaught. It did not take long for knights to find them, a group of seven. His comrades charged them, yelling, but Yusuf stalled. Among them, a face streaked with dirt and ash and blood, sword dripping with Muslim blood, eyes a pit of rage and hatred, was a face that he thought he recognised. Had he not killed this knight?

The battle on the plain of Ramleh had been two or three weeks previously, but he remembered the knight that he met in the field. The knight whose sword had met is, who he had gutted. He remembered the feeling of his bones beneath his hand, the fear in his eyes as he realised that he was going to die. Yusuf’s sword breaching his body would have been brutal and painful and torn him apart. His was not a sword designed for stabbing, but he had taken such great satisfaction from driving it through the flesh of this invader. And yet here he seemed to stand, killing Yusuf’s countrymen, his people. The same fire of rage licked at Yusuf’s soul and he yelled loudly. The knight’s eyes met his, and for the slightest of moments, Yusuf felt a flash of fear. 

The knight ran at him, sword ready to swing. He looked stronger, more sure of himself, steadier on his feet. But never as graceful as Yusuf, who simply side-stepped the charge, and let the sharp edge of his blade split open the knight’s stomach as he ran past him. Yusuf smiled in satisfaction. This time he would make sure this knight was dead. The man stumbled to one knee, clutching his stomach with his free hand, his shield disposed of in his charge. Yusuf saw the blood spilling out onto his hand. Then the knight stood, stretched a little, and turned to him, sword hefting in his hand. Yusuf stared in disbelief. 

“Ghyr mumkin,” he muttered. Impossible. 

There was no wound. He could see undamaged skin. But he could also see the knight’s blood on his own sword. Was it witchcraft? Demons? Yusuf felt fear more certainly now. The knight had advanced on him, and gripped him by the shoulder, hard, finger tips digging into his clothing and skin beneath. Their eyes met, and Yusuf wasn’t sure he could see a soul in the knight’s eyes. The knight lifted one corner of his lips in a smile, and drove his sword through to the hilt between Yusuf’s ribs, and into his heart.

And so Yusuf Ibrahim Muhammad Al-Kaysani died.

He spluttered awake, and his hand felt for his sword immediately, finding strength in it’s grip. There was an ache in his chest, in his heart. It was quieter around him now, blood soaked the floor around him. His own blood, the blood of his friends and comrades. He didn’t have time to understand what was happening - he needed to find that knight and dissect him. He pushed himself up with his hands, and released with fear that they were no longer burned and shredded, but healed. He let out a feral, pained, angry, vicious cry, and ran. 

He cut down any enemy he encountered as he followed the sounds of fighting in the city. The pain in his chest felt amplified as he saw the bodies of not just men, but innocent women, even children. The Christians, they claimed to be the righteous, the holy, God’s people, but Yusuf knew the truth. They were animals. 

He skidded to a halt in a square. He had traded in this square, when it had been bustling and full of life. Now Christians were slaughtering men there and letting their bodies line the space. The knight was here, with others. Yusuf was alone. When the knight saw him, the look on his face was familiar. Yusuf recognised it from his own reaction - surprise, horror. Knights began to advance on Yusuf, but his knight held out a hand.

“Fermare! Lui è mio.” Stop! He is mine.

Yusuf snarled at him, and charged, their swords met sharply. Yusuf ducked, avoiding another swipe of the Christian’s sword, and rolled, dragging his blade across the back of one of the knight’s knees. He cried out and fell again, and Yusuf continued to his feet. The knight gritted his teeth, and dragged his way back to standing, muttering. They clashed again, this time the knight’s blade catching him in the side in a deep cut. He winced hard and almost lost his footing, but fought through the pain. He pushed forward, grabbing the knight’s sword by the top of the hilt, feeling the blade cut into his hand and warm blood rush over his hand and wrist. He pulled them closer together, and rammed his knee into the knight’s groin, and as the knight doubled over in pain, he simultaneously grabbed the sword from his hand, and threw it away, and sliced the knight’s throat with his blade. 

He took a step back, letting the body thud to the floor. He hadn’t even noticed as they fought that more of his countrymen had arrived, and were fighting the other knights. He looked around to see who needed help. 

He didn’t get a chance to help anyone, as the wind was driven from him. The knight - the definitely should be dead knight - was driving his shoulder into Yusuf’s chest, and they both fell hard to the ground. Yusuf tried to yell curses, as a dagger plunged into his chest over and over again. He felt his lungs filling with blood, and he choked and gasped, vision blurring and then...nothing.

He woke up gasping again, able to draw in air now. The knight was still on top of his body, watching him suspiciously. Yusuf did not give him time to react before he reached up, and twisted with all of his might, snapping the neck of the knight, who slumped on top of him immediately. Yusuf cursed again and tried to shift the dead weight. That was when he heard the terrifying sounds of bones, not cracking, but shifting? Suddenly the knight’s hands were around his throat, trying to choke the life out of him. Yusuf was getting really sick of killing this knight. And being killed. He maneuvered his arms and punched with all of this might three or four times into the knight’s gut. The knight spluttered and scrambled off him, rising to his feet and retreating a few paces back. 

Yusuf cautiously got to his feet, facing off against the knight. They looked at each other, saw the death and destruction, fire and blood around them. Yusuf could not read the knight’s expression, but he was going to end this monster’s life, no matter what it took. He took a breath, and charged again. He would fight all day and all night if he needed to. He thought, just for a second, as he ran, that the knight looked at him with exasperation. They had no weapons left, so they grappled with their hands, landing punches and kicks where they could. The knight shouted in his foul language, and with a surprising feat of strength, hauled Yusuf over his shoulder and back, so that he landed sprawled in the dirt. The knight did not release a tight grip on Yusuf’s wrist, twisting it, and putting his weight on Yusuf’s legs, and defended against Yusuf’s flailing, angry blows.

“Smettila. Smettila!” The knight yelled at him. Yusuf did not understand, but he sensed that the knight’s demeanor had changed. The knight held his free hand up in...peace? Yusuf stilled, tense and cautious. The knight gave him a stern look, and picked up a dagger from the dirt beside him. Yusuf flinched and began to fight against the knight’s weight again. “Smettila!” The knight insisted. 

The knight took the blade, and ran it down the length of this own forearm, gritting his teeth in pain. Yusuf watched as seconds later, the skin drew itself back together. The knight gave him another stern look, and repeated the action on the Yusuf’s forearm that he still gripped in his hand. Yusuf hissed at the sting, so different to a wound in battle. Yusuf’s skin healed in the same way the knight’s had. Yusuf looked at the knight, and then at the bodies around him, listened to the screams of the city. Something was happening to him. Something was happening to this knight. Something that wasn’t happening to anyone else. He gave a slow nod, an acceptance of some kind of understanding, and the knight released him. They stood slowly, watching each other.

Yusuf didn’t know what to do. He wanted to defend the city. Defend the people. But it was a massacre. A massacre that he kept surviving. Would they make him a slave if he stayed? If they realised that he was seemingly now immune to harm? He studied the knight. They were drenched in each other’s blood. The knight held out his hand, pressing the other to his chest. 

“Nicolo.” His name, Yusuf guessed. He hesitated. He had so much fear. So much confusion. He looked down, and asked Allah for forgiveness. He gripped the Christian’s hand. 

“Yusuf,” he responded.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicolo and Yusuf, in a tentative truce, escape Jerusalem together.

They wasted no time in their newly agreed, if slightly unstable, truce, of sorts. They both sensed, knew, that if they wanted any answers as to what was happening to them, and if they wanted to stay safe, they needed to get out of the city. Nicolo pointed back in the direction of the gate to the North, and Yusuf nodded in agreement. Most of the troops were in the city now, moving and killing towards the centre. That was their best chance. Nicolo gathered his weapons from the ground, and pulled a tunic from the body of a fallen knight. He held it out to Yusuf, who looked at him incredulously. Nicolo muttered to himself and threw the tunic at Yusuf. They weren’t going to sneak away with Yusuf looking like an enemy. They were both covered in enough blood and dirt that Nicolo hoped that it was only Yusuf’s clothes that would give him away. Yusuf knew this too, and conceded, pulling the tunic on, trying to hide his sword under it.

Yusuf led them as they crept through back streets back towards the north. They encountered a few Crusader soldiers. Only one questioned them, and Yusuf happily dispatched him. When they reached it, they ducked behind the last set of buildings before the gate. There were men on guard there, looking for people trying to flee the city. Yusuf gritted his teeth, prepared to fight. Nicolo sensed this and pulled back on Yusuf’s shoulder, shaking his head. Nicolo placed a hand on his own heart again. 

“Fidati,” he said quietly. Trust. Yusuf had no idea what he was saying, he could only rely on his interpretation of Nicolo’s actions. So he was surprised when Nicolo took his dagger, and sliced a deep gash across his chest. Before Yusuf could protest, Nicolo was dragging him to his feet, supporting his weight, and pulling him towards the gate.

“He needs help, medicine,” Nicolo called to the guards in Italian. “His father is an important Briton. The city is taken.” To his relief, they let them both through. As soon as they had passed the gate, and the burnt ground outside the walls, still smouldering from the barrage, Nicolo let Yusuf drop unceremoniously. His chest was healing already. Yusuf touched it in fascination.

“Khayl,” he said to Nicolo from the floor. Horses. They needed horses if they were going to get anywhere away from the European armies. Nicolo had picked up very little of the language during his time in the Holy Land, but he understood this enough. He shook his head. It was too risky to head into the camp to look for horses. Yusuf cursed. They would have to find some elsewhere. For now they would have to walk until they could find a source of water. They had to head northeast, toward the Jordan river. If they headed south, there were too many Crusaders plundering, and the Egyptian reinforcements coming up from the south. If they went northwest, they would come across all the Crusaders who had taken over towns and cities on the route from Turkey to Jerusalem. From Jordan they could head north to Damascus. Then he would leave this Crusader animal to his own devices. If he hadn’t figured out a way to kill him first.

This was only about finding answers about what was happening to him and to this knight. In the meantime, they needed to find a way to communicate. Yusuf had an idea, but he needed supplies. They needed a way to get supplies, horses, food and water, new clothes.  
He stood, heaving himself to his feet, and pressed his hand to his heart in the same way that Nicolo had done to get them out of the city. Trust me, the motion tried to convey. Nicolo absolutely should not trust him, but for now, they needed to get away from the city. Nicolo nodded in acceptance, and followed as Yusuf began to walk.

They walked for miles, trudging onwards in silence. A few miles outside of Jerusalem, Nicolo shed the markers that identified him as a Crusader, leaving him only in trousers, and a bloody, torn shirt. The only thing that he kept was his longsword. Shedding the layers didn’t help with the heat, and to Yusuf’s great satisfaction, after a few more hours, Nicolo collapsed and died. Yusuf guessed from dehydration. He prodded the body with his toe a couple of times, before the knight breathed again. When Nicolo looked up, Yusuf was still smiling smugly. 

The second time it happened, Yusuf still laughed. But then it kept happening. Nicolo wasn’t rehydrating when he came back, and it started to become very tiresome, very quickly. Yusuf considered him leaving him there to fend for himself. He wasn’t technically leaving him to die if he came back to life, right? But there was something desperate about the Christian, now that he had shed all of his armour, in the way he gasped back to life each time. Yusuf thought that Nicolo should count himself lucky that they came across a village over the next hill. Yusuf half dragging Nicolo at this point, and was definitely close to abandoning him, mysterious resurrections or not.

“Salam Alaikum,” Yusuf called to a young boy tending a herd outside the village. 

“Wa Alaykum as-salam,” the boy responded. 

“We have travelled far, and are very tired and thirsty. May we make use of your well?” Yusuf asked in Arabic. The boy nodded, and agreed to fetch someone who could trade with them. Yusuf hauled Nicolo over to the well, and drew up some water. Nicolo was close to death again - Yusuf could tell the signs now - so he saw no harm in drinking his fill first, and washing the blood and dirt from his face and hands. They could clean the rest off in a river. When Nicolo gasped back to life, Yusuf handed the water to him. He looked like he could cry with happiness as he drank the liquid, running it into his mouth and then over his face. He laughed a little from the sheer joy of it, then saw Yusuf’s expression and stopped. 

“L'acqua è buona,” he muttered in his own defence. Water is good. It was good. It was incredible. This was the most water he had had in weeks, and it felt so good to feel it washing down his throat, and down his face. Yusuf smiled a little this time. He thought he understood what Nicolo was trying to say, and it surprised him that his words and mannerisms amused him.

An aging man approached with the boy, and Yusuf greeted him with visible respect. It frustrated Nicolo that he couldn’t understand their exchange. He hated not knowing things. He hated not knowing what they were talking about, he hated not knowing why he and this strange, cruel infidel wouldn’t die. He questioned why God had chosen him, he questioned more why God had chosen an unbeliever. 

The conversation appeared to go well, Yusuf made the older man laugh, and there was an exchange involving some pointing in a direction. This was followed by another exchange, in which the man pointed to Nicolo, but more specifically his sword. Nicolo pressed his hand to it. He did not want to give his sword up to anyone. He saw Yusuf watching, and then shake his head. Instead, he removed the sword from his own back, and handed it to the elder. There was another show of respect, and the elder walked away. Nicolo got to his feet, drinking more water, and dusted himself off. 

“Ma’an” Yusuf said, pointing in the same direction as he had with the elder, and then to their bodies. Nicolo shrugged, and Yusuf huffed, rubbing his arms where there was still dirt and blood, and then pointing to the water in Nicolo’s hands, trying to convey, somehow, for some reason, that there was a river in which they could wash. “Ma’an”. 

Nicolo pointed to the water as well. “Ma’an?” he asked, testing the strange Arabic word in his mouth, raising his eyebrow as a question as to whether they were talking about the same thing. Yusuf nodded. “Ah, acqua,” Nicolo smiled a little. Yusuf repeated it back to him. For the slightest of moments, there was a feeling of understanding between the two of them. The elder returned with a bag that he passed to Yusuf. Nicolo set down the water vessel by the well again, and awkwardly bowed to the elder, trying to show some kind of respect, and followed Yusuf as he began to walk in the direction indicated.

They walked a few miles, and came across a wide river. They travelled along it, until they found a bank to settle on. Yusuf hid the bag in some undergrowth, and Nicolo tentatively placed his sword along with it. It made him think of the exchange between Yusuf and the elder again. Had Yusuf sold his sword in exchange for their supplies? If so, why? Nicolo’s desire for answers about their new state of being had definitely left him in the position where he needed the infidel more than the infidel needed him - he had no idea where he was. What were Yusuf’s motivations here? 

Yusuf had already stripped off all of his clothes and was sinking his body into the river water. Nicolo followed suit, letting the water run over his muscles as he walked, and then swam deeper into the river. It was bliss. He let his whole head slip under, and ran his hands through his hair and beard to wash away the grime and blood. He wondered, as he soaked, if he could drown any more. He wondered if Yusuf was thinking about trying to drown him (he was). He surfaced and scrubbed his hands over the rest of his body, washing away the battle he had been in. He withdrew from the water before Yusuf, and placed his shirt down on the bank to sit on while the heat of the afternoon sun dried off his skin. After a while, Yusuf came out of the water and settled himself a few paces away in the same manner, and they sat in silence, watching the river flow by. 

As Nicolo took that pause, that moment to think of everything that had happened since the plain of Ramleh and the first time that Yusuf had brutally murdered him, he realised that there was so much more that he didn’t understand about this situation; this repeated resurrection, this need to find answers with this enemy of his. All he knew, somehow, was that this enemy was an important part of it all, he just didn’t understand how yet. He was not to know that Yusuf was thinking the same thing in that same moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, thanks for reading this far! I know that it is a bit clunky in places, but I am really enjoying writing this, and I'm hoping that dialogue and interaction can increase now that our heroes have escaped together. as always, I treasure any feedback or comments with all of my warped little soul.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yusuf and Nicolo continue north, and find there is more to situation than their new shared talent for life.

They slept on the river bank that night. Nicolo was livid when he woke to find that Yusuf had killed him again in his sleep. He could tell from the blood caked on his neck and shoulders and soaked into the ground beneath him. Despite the fact that Yusuf was in the middle of his prayers, Nicolo yelled a furious stream of curses at him in Italian as he pulled his shirt off and marched down to the river to wash the blood off, again. He thought he saw Yusuf smiling smugly again through his muttered heresy. Apparently, the Saracen still enjoyed watching him die. Nicolo mentally marked another death that he was owed, and promised himself that Yusuf would pay for them all individually.

Nicolo pulled his shirt back on, despite his wet skin, and out of the corner of his eye, noticed that where Yusuf had been sleeping, there was some rudimentary parchment, and charcoal, and on one of them, a rough sketch of two faces. He looked closer, peering over at them. Although rough, it was unmistakably the faces of the women that Nicolo had been seeing in his dreams for weeks, ever since the first time Yusuf had killed him. Yusuf had finished praying and noticed what Nicolo was staring at. He gave him a querying look. Nicolo pointed to the drawing, and then his own head. He felt ridiculous doing it, but he mimed being asleep to make his point as clearly as he could. 

Yusuf looked at his drawing again, face deep with concern. It looked like the Christian was telling him that he was dreaming of the same women. Yusuf didn’t like that at all. As though not dying wasn’t strange enough, to be sharing dreams? That was too much. They stood in uneasy silence for a moment. Then Yusuf gathered up the parchment, and stored it in the pack. He had planned to use it to help him and Nicolo communicate. When he had cut Nicolo’s throat this morning with his dagger, it had taken longer to heal than previous injuries, and Yusuf had been frustrated that he had sold his sword for the means to communicate with a dead man. But Nicolo had healed like every time before and Yusuf was resigned again to their situation.

Knowing that Nicolo was dreaming of the same women changed things for Yusuf a bit. He would still rather the Christian was dead and not his responsibility, but dreaming the same faces? That elevated the circumstances, changed it from a curiosity to otherworldly. Unfortunately, it did affirm for him what he sensed Nicolo already thought; they were meant to be involved in this mystery together. They collected themselves, their scant belongings, and began to walk again, following the river north.

It was the first time that Yusuf had seen those faces in his dreams, but then that had been his first sleep since he had first died in Jerusalem. Such a strange concept to have to put together. Yusuf knew that these were not normal dreams. They didn’t feel like normal dreams, they were too real, too detailed, too far removed from the dreams he was used to. He had seen the women in a beautiful, green land, laughing with each other, and then had seen them fighting. They were fierce warrior queens, moving with grace, elegance, and a deadly strike. The dreams had woken him with a start in the early hours, and their faces still burned in his waking vision. He felt compelled to pull them out of his brain, and had reached for the parchment out of instinct. The meditative act of sketching their faces had calmed him. When he was finished, he had looked at the sleeping Nicolo. He had decided to see what happened if he killed him again - just in case not dying wore off. It hadn’t.

Yusuf thought of the faces of the women again as they walked. He guessed that whoever they were, they were as much a part of the puzzle as Nicolo was. He shot a resentful glare at the Christian, who saw it, and glared back. Yusuf wondered just how big the puzzle was.

It was another couple of hours before either of them broke the silence. It was Nicolo. The sudden sound of his voice surprised Yusuf.

“Um...maan? Ma’aan?” He struggled, furrowing his brow. 

“Acqua?” Yusuf asked, pretending that he wasn’t showing off that he could remember Nicolo’s word better than Nicolo could remember his. Nicolo nodded. “Ma’an,” Yusuf clarified, as he passed Nicolo the water skin from the pack. Nicolo took it with another grateful nod. He took slow sips, careful to not take too much and use up their supply. He was not planning to die of dehydration again because of being careless - he had found that experience extraordinarily unpleasant. Yusuf made a noise, and Nicolo waved him off, thinking that Yusuf was assuming that he was drinking too much.

He was wrong. When he looked up, there were three arrows lodged deep in Yusuf’s chest, and he was falling to the floor, glassy eyed. Nicolo found a noise escaping his own mouth - frustration and anger manifesting itself in a strangled grunt, not dissimilar to the noise that Yusuf had made when the arrows struck him. Nicolo dropped the water skin and drew his longsword, looking for the source of the shots. Three men approached from within a nearby cluster of trees, one of them reloading a crossbow. Nicolo hefted his sword in his hand, bearing his teeth at them.

“You walk with animals?” One of them asked Nicolo creully, pointing his sword at the body of Yusuf. They were Norman, Nicolo had picked up enough of the language from his fellow knights to know, and to understand this man. Crusade deserters, Nicolo assumed. Just like he was now, he realised with disappointment. The difference was that these men had left to plunder and steal and kill, rather than for a mysterious newfound immortality shared with a murderous enemy. He glanced at Yusuf - still dead.

“As do you,” Nicolo responded, looking back to them, cocking his head at the three men. “Do you lie with each other as animals do?” 

He used their rage against them, and found satisfaction in it, driving his sword through the first man who threw himself at him. Ducking under the attack of the second, he withdrew the sword from the body, and twisted himself around, piercing the side of the second man. The third man landed an arrow in Nicolo’s shoulder, knocking him back a little. It was an intense burst of pain through his left side, and Nicolo cried out, but he refused to let it slow him down, launching himself forward, and letting his sword open the third man’s neck, blood spraying across his face.  
He fell back from the body, breathing heavily, adrenaline pumping through him. His shoulder was on fire, and he ripped the bolt from it, seething, letting it drop to the floor. He picked the crossbow up, finding it already reloaded. It had a nice weight to it.

He looked to Yusuf, and saw that he was unmoved, eyes still unseeing. He walked over, and kicked Yusuf’s legs a couple of times.

“Destati,” he said gruffly. Wake up. He tried kicking him again, but it did nothing. He sighed, knelt by the body, and placed his sword down on the ground. He yanked the arrows from Yusuf’s limp body, watching closely, finding himself muttering a small prayer for life to return to Yusuf. He didn’t particularly want to do this alone. 

Yusuf woke to Nicolo’s concerned face, and it surprised a laugh out of him. He coughed a little, and heaved himself up to sit. He looked at the bodies lying a few paces away, and Nicolo’s bloody sword, and conceded a look of approval. Nicolo stood again and reluctantly held out a hand, Yusuf reluctantly took it, and Nicolo pulled him to his feet. They paused for a moment, hands gripped. 

Nicolo pulled his hand away first, and fired the crossbow bolt into Yusuf’s chest. That would teach him to cut his throat in his sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicolo and Yusuf learn about each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone,
> 
> I just wanted to say thank you so much for all of your comments. I know I should reply to more, but honestly I am overwhelmed! You can't imagine how much it means to me.
> 
> Secondly, I wanted to ask for forgiveness for this chapter. It's not my favourite and I know i have taken some liberties with jumping ahead with language. I hope that the pay off will be better next chapters (with more dialogue)!

When they finally reached Damascus, Yusuf found a room for them to stay in. It was small, with two cot beds and a writing table. Nicolo wanted to ask how he had arranged it, but he didn’t have the energy to figure out how to communicate it, so he just had to trust Yusuf. He would later learn, and be outraged, that Yusuf was a surprisingly good pickpocket. 

After several weeks staying together in that small room, they had learnt several things about each other.

The first was that now that the pace had slowed, and they weren’t running from battle and danger, and had found relative safety, neither of them knew what to do, or if they had done the right thing. Nicolo thought that this had to be the reason he often noticed Yusuf watching him - he had to be questioning what they had done just as Nicolo was.

The second thing that they had learnt was that learning to communicate with each other was made exponentially harder by the fact that they did not share a common script. Both tried to write words for the other, only to find that it created an extra barrier to learning from each other, because neither could translate into the sounds that the letters were supposed to make. They attempted it for a morning before Yusuf got too frustrated, and, in order to stop himself from destroying something, had to walk it off - they had struck an unspoken agreement - no murdering where they were staying. 

The third thing that Yusuf learnt was that Nicolo could not draw. At all. He had learnt this one morning, after they were both startled awake at the same moment. Yusuf had been dreaming of the women again, their faces becoming so familiar to him now. It was the death of one of the women that had thrown Yusuf from sleep, feeling the pain that the woman experienced through his own muscles. He wanted to see just how similar his and Nicolo’s dreams were, so as soon as their eyes met, in shared shock, he pushed the new parchment he had acquired and the charcoal towards Nicolo. Nicolo had shaken his head at first, but Yusef had insisted, indicating that he wanted Nicolo to draw what he had seen. He had watched in fascination as Nicolo concentrated so hard on what he was doing, his brow furrowed together. 

When Nicolo handed the result back, Yusuf couldn’t help but laugh. It was a warm, genuine laugh that escaped him before he could stop himself. 

Nicolo, affronted, considered breaking the no-murder rule. He thought he might just try smothering Yusuf in his sleep - it was mostly the mess that they were worried about anyway.

The fourth thing that they both learnt was that Nicolo was not ok. Now that the pace had slowed, and they weren’t running from battle and danger, and had found relative safety, it wasn’t only fierce warrior women that Nicolo dreamed of. Even if he knew how to, Nicolo wouldn’t have told Yusuf about these dreams. Instead, Yusuf only knew that Nicolo woke up suddenly and violently and gasping. Nicolo was dreaming of dying. He dreamt of being stabbed in the stomach, and having his throat cut, and his neck snapped.

But it was so much worse than that. His dreams were also haunted by murders he had committed. He saw Yusuf’s face in both types of dream, but it was the dreams in which he killed Yusuf, and others, that Nicolo hated the most. In those dreams he wasn’t confronted by monsters and demons. He was the monster. He thought back to the simple priest that he had been, and wondered when he had changed so much.

Yusuf could only watch, and guess what was going on. He knew he couldn’t help. At first he didn’t know what Nicolo needed, and he knew that Nicolo wouldn’t want help from him.

The fifth thing that they learnt in those weeks, was that Yusuf was just better at learning language than Nicolo was. They reached an understanding a few days after the dramatic written script morning that they would focus on Yusuf learning Italian. All that mattered at that point was being able to fundamentally communicate with each other. They dedicated almost all of their time to it, through Yusuf drawing, or Nicolo symbolising, or through walking through the city together, Yusuf taking in all of the information.

Yusuf still spoke in Arabic to Nicolo, despite knowing he didn’t understand. He wanted Nicolo to understand the flow of his language, so that he could teach him in time. Plus he found it extremely satisfying to insult an oblivious Nicolo.

One of Yusuf’s favourite things about their walks through Damascus, even as he learnt, was watching Nicolo take in the city and the people. Nicolo hadn’t experienced a city in a culture outside of Europe that he hadn’t first been a part of sieging. Yusuf was glad that Nicolo got a chance to experience the city full of everyday life, and was glad to see that Nicolo seemed fascinated by it all.

With their hard work, slowly over the weeks, conversation became possible. It was clumsy, and stilted, and often full of elaborate gestures, or pauses to think of a word, or longer pauses for Yusuf to try and draw what he meant for Nicolo to translate for him. It was painful at times, but at others it made them both smile, or even laugh. 

The sixth, and final, main thing that they learnt during that time, was that language didn’t have to only be words or drawings. One morning, early in the day, Nicolo woke sharply from a nightmare whilst Yusuf quietly prayed. Nicolo was visibly shaken, stumbled from his bed, pulling on the clothes that were bundled with his possessions, and hurriedly left the room. Yusuf finished his prayers, and observed Nicolo through the window in the outdoor courtyard below. He didn’t know what Nicolo needed, but he knew what he could do to try and help.

He found Nicolo in the courtyard, and held his sword out to him. Nicolo looked uncertain, hands still shaking slightly. Yusuf wasn’t to know that he had dreamt about what he had done with that sword. He was hesitant at first, but Yusuf pressed his hand to his heart. Trust me. Yusuf had borrowed a sword from the owner of the room that they rented for himself, and they began to train together. It started with moves, side by side, mirroring each other, going through the routines that cemented moves in their minds and allowed patterns and reactions to form. They began to understand their different approaches with the different blades. Within a week, this moved to sparring. They both thought about the fact that normal people wouldn’t spar with sharp blades, but then they weren’t normal people anymore, and small nicks and cuts started to go largely unnoticed. After a few weeks of sparring, and learning from each other, they began to do more than spar with swords. Yusuf began to show Nicolo how to fight with shorter knives, and in return, Nicolo showed Yusuf what he knew about wrestling, and using someone’s momentum against them. 

They didn’t speak much during their training sessions, even as they became a regular feature in their day. Occasionally they would emit exclamations of pain or satisfaction, but they found that they didn’t need to speak, and training together became a language of its own.

One hot, balmy afternoon, they sat together in their room, Nicolo on the floor, snacking on dates. Yusuf sat on his bed, sketching. Running out of other subject matter, he had started to sketch Nicolo, not that he would ever let the knight know that. His concentration was broken when Nicolo threw a date at him. He tutted in disapproval.

“I think I need...a mission,” Nicolo told him. “Purpose,” he clarified.

“Maybe Allah chose us to protect his innocent,” Yusuf suggested, eating the projectile date. It was something that he had been mulling over in his mind for a while.

“That doesn’t make sense. You and I believe in different Gods.”

“Who says?” Yusuf challenged him with a wry smile. Nicolo just frowned at him. “We can still protect the innocent. We can use our gift.” Nicolo just about avoided scoffing.

“Where would we start? Do you suggest you and I free Jerusalem together?” 

“Anywhere,” Yusuf smiled, ignoring Nicolo’s quip. “We will walk, and we will help where there is a need. Our path will be laid out for us. All you need is faith.” Nicolo wasn’t sure how much faith he could muster anymore. But maybe he could hope; hope that if he followed Yusuf on the path of protecting the innocent, maybe he could find redemption, and defeat the monster in his nightmares. He lasted into thought for a long time.

"We walk and we help," he finally agreed. Yusuf met the statement with a warm smile. He had hope.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting! Two weeks ago I got called back to full time for the first time since March which includes a very long commute and apparently that's the answer to what has been stifling my creativity for eight years....
> 
> Thank you once again for all of your incredible, heart warming comments. They are what had helped me push through to complete this chapter (and to keep believing in my original work).

“There is no way you are going to make that shot.”

“I’m going to make the shot.”

“I’m not sure you are going to make it.”

“Do you not want me to make the shot?” Nicolo whispered sharply. They were crouched close together in the undergrowth, Nicolo trying to train his crossbow on the largest of the bandits around the campfire.

“No, it would be helpful.”

“Well then stop talking, or I will shoot you. Again.” He didn’t see Yusuf’s wicked grin. He refocused his breathing, steadied his mind, steadied his hand. Breathe. Focus. Measure. Slow. Fire.

The bolt met its mark with an uncomfortably audible thud and the bandit fell to the floor, clutching at the arrow protruding from his neck. Nicolo found a moment to give Yusuf a smug look before they charged down the hill towards the camp, swords drawn and yelling a battle cry. Nicolo went to the left, Yusuf to the right, a pattern that they had grown accustomed to in recent weeks, seeking out people to help and fighting the battles that others couldn’t.

They could see in themselves and each other the benefits that training together each morning had brought, even if neither would admit it to the other. Nicolo felt faster and his movements felt smoother, more intentioned, less frantic. He was starting to understand his sword beyond just hacking and stabbing. 

Yusuf had learnt more about just hacking and stabbing. He reckoned that Nicolo was getting more out of their new, shaky almost-friendship, but he felt strangely proud, so he didn’t mind. Plus, it suited him to keep the Italian around while his brain worked through their puzzle. He tried to understand why them, why them in particular. Why two people on opposing sides of a war with seemingly diametric beliefs? Was that the point?

Yusuf had this battle easier, needing only to dispatch three bandits before the right side of the camp was clear, and Yusuf could, whilst being aware of the potential for other enemies, watch Nicolo fighting. Nicolo was struggling a little, but successfully managed to kill two enemies with a sweeping, fluid stroke that Yusuf had taught him.

“On your left,” Yusuf called to him, rather casually for the circumstances.

“Oh really? Do you think so?” Nicolo snapped, gesturing to the blade that had pierced through his shoulder. “What gave it away?” Yusuf just shrugged at him, cleaning the blood from his own blade.

“Just trying to help.”

The bandit who had stabbed Nicolo watched on in horror as he did not react in pain to the sword inside him, but instead conversed in a strange language with his companion. He composed himself just enough - 

“Demon!” He yelled loudly, drawing his dagger, too afraid to draw his sword out of Nicolo’s body. Nicolo turned to him and firmly responded in Arabic that he was not, in fact, a demon. Yusuf felt another surprised flash of pride at this, even as Nicolo killed the bandit. He grimaced as Nicolo turned back to him, his face cut open by the bandit’s last desperate attempt to fell Nicolo.

“Not pretty enough for you now?” Nicolo quipped before he could stop himself. Yusuf quietly snorted. He prodded the meat that the bandits had been mid-cooking over their fire with his sword. 

“Looks ok. We sleep here tonight, return to the village in the morning?” Yusuf asked. Nicolo nodded in agreement, musing on the sword protruding through his chest above his heart. He could feel the pain and the blood loss now, and his legs feeling weak. He tried to reach around to pull it back out, but he couldn't reach, and it sent new waves of pain through his body as the sword moved as he did. He tried to push it back out using the inches sticking out the front, but as his body was trying to heal, it hurt too much and he didn't have the strength.

"Please help," he finally muttered in defeat, sinking to his knees as dizziness started to set in. It wasn't helped by the uncomfortable feeling of two parts of his face being fused back together. 

Yusuf carefully set down his sword and walked around the fire to Nicolo. His warm hand gripped Nicolo’s shoulder from behind and Nicolo fought down his reaction, reminded instantly of their first encounter on the plains of Ramleh. Both hands had been to steady him, but this one was more gentle. Instead of Yusuf's fingers driving into his skin with hatred, there was just slight pressure. Yusuf pretended that he hadn't noticed.

"Ready?" Yusuf asked and Nicolo nodded, gritting his teeth. He still cried out when the sword was pulled, and it was Yusuf's hand on his shoulder that prevented him from falling forward. 

"Thank you," Nicolo grunted. In a fleeting moment of grateful respect, he chose to thank Yusuf in Arabic. The gesture did not go unnoticed, and Yusuf squeezed Nicolo's shoulder before he released him.

Nicolo dragged himself on his hands and knees towards the fire, groaning as he settled back against one of the logs that the bandits had positioned around the fire.

Yusuf watched him for a moment, and then turned, slowly walking up the hill to collect their packs from the shrubs where they had stashed them, his own muscles starting to ache. From the top of the hill he observed the land in front of him. The camp was on the side of a hill, which declined sharply to the other side. Usually a very sensible place to camp if you want to avoid ambush. Unless it's by two very determined men who had tracked you for two days and worked hard to take you by surprise. Yusuf decided that they would be safe enough if they dropped the bodies over the side of the decline. That was a lesson that they had learnt early on when Yusuf had woken one night to find Nicolo fending off wild dogs. 

He collected Nicolo's crossbow from where he had dropped it, and hooked their packs over his shoulder.

"I need help," he told Nicolo as he picked his footing back down the hill. He spoke Arabic, knowing they were words that he had taught Nicolo. He received no response. He refused to repeat himself for the arrogant Italian. However, when he finally looked up, dropping the packs to the floor, Nicolo was already asleep, face still a little contorted with pain. Yusuf found himself overwhelmed for just a moment, all the pain and fear crashing through his chest like a tidal wave, and then settling back down. Nicolo had been struggling so much that Yusuf didn't have the heart to wake him again. He took a deep breath and resolved to move the corpses himself. 

Nicolo’s dreams were bad that night, but not bad enough to wake him with a start. Instead he groaned as the morning light nudged him awake. He squinted at Yusuf with bleary eyes. He was sat by the gently smouldering remains of the fire, quietly sketching. 

“You didn’t wake me? My watch?” Nicolo asked, his brain still confused with sleep.

“You needed to sleep,” Yusuf said, glancing at Nicolo briefly. 

“I don’t need your pity,” he grumbled, trying to stretch some of the stiffness out of his limbs, pulling himself up to standing.

“And I don’t need you to be an over-tired, unfocused mess.”

“Are you worried that I am going to get you killed Yusuf?” Nicolo asked, rolling his eyes. Yusuf slid his sketch back into his pack slowly, while he measured his response. His patience with Nicolo was being tested, and he didn’t want to get angry. 

“Yes,” he finally answered simply, standing so that he was on a level with Nicolo. “We do not know the rules of this.” There was a moment of silence as Nicolo considered this. Their eyes met for a moment, but Nicolo looked away quickly. There was something too personal about it, and it gave Nicolo a tight feeling in his throat. Maybe it was the reminder of his nightmares. "Nicolo you need to decide if you are in this or not." Yusuf told him firmly. He wasn't sure that now was the right time to say it, but he knew that it needed saying.

"It's not that simple. You wouldn’t understand how much I have left behind."

Nicolo watched as Yusuf's face turned to stone. Yusuf quickly crossed the space between them until their faces were close, and Nicolo could see that although his face was stone, his eyes were fire.

"You don't know anything about me, Christian," he stated slowly and clearly, seething the derogation. "You haven't tried to know. Either you are in this or not, but don't tell me about leaving things behind." 

Nicolo thought that Yusuf was going to walk away, but he stayed in his face, challenging him. Nicolo wanted to hit him. He wanted to lie on the floor and just not go on. He didn't move.

"You came here to steal and kill with no thought to the ordinary lives that you have destroyed," Yusuf continued when Nicolo didn't answer. "And you don't care enough to try to understand our way of life, our faith in Allah, to understand me."

This caused a spike of emotion in Nicolo, but not one that he could place. It could have been consternation, hurt, maybe even a little guilt. Nicolo had made a lot of decisions because he cared. Part of the reason he became a priest was because he cared, and he had cared for his flock. He had become a knight because he cared about oppressed Christians under the heel of the Saracens. That is what they had been told - that they needed to liberate their subjugated brothers and sisters and the Holy City. But maybe he had lost the part of him that cared along the way. 

Yusuf finally backed away just a little to give them breathing room, still watching Nicolo, trying to read his face, anger still coursing through him, his heart beating fast. He felt something charged between them that didn't feel like his anger, but he pushed thought aside. Nicolo still hadn't moved, hadn't spoken. And Yusuf was not planning to yield. He wanted to know how Nicolo was going to respond.

Yusuf was surprised when Nicolo's eyes met, and held, his. It happened so rarely.

"I-I am sorry," he said quietly. He didn't clarify for what, but Yusuf was satisfied enough with this vulnerability and recognition to not push Nicolo and ask. He sensed that they would talk more in the future. He softened, putting a gentle hand on Nicolo’s shoulder. Nicolo did not flinch away this time. They did not need to say anything else to each other.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to share the songs that have been particular inspiration whilst writing this Joe and Nicky. As always, thank you for everything.
> 
> Wolf Totem (feat. Jacoby Shaddix) - The HU, Papa Roach  
> Break In (feat. Amy Lee) - Halestorm, Amy Lee (this song is ridiculously beautiful)

Nicolo was distant that day, and - still frustrated - Yusuf didn’t much care. They had packed up the possessions that the bandits had stolen from the village, and laden down, they trudged back to where they had come from. They were always at least five paces apart, walking in silence, apart from when Yusuf asked to pray. Nicolo didn’t grumble as he had in previous days at the perceived interruption, and Yusuf couldn’t tell if it was because Nicolo was so intent on ignoring him, or if, just maybe, he had gotten through to him.

Yusuf didn’t want to admit to himself that he was starting to have doubts about what they had done. Maybe it was just tiredness, but the confidence that he previously had that staying together would give them answers was waning. All they were left with was frustration, a growing list of ways they had died, bizarre shared dreams, and more questions. He missed his family, his life. He questioned whether dragging this needy Christian around was worth it when he could just pretend that nothing had changed and go back to what he knew.

But he knew that everything had changed, and it was pointless to pretend otherwise. If Allah had a purpose for himself and Nicolo, then they would fulfill it. 

Nicolo had similar thoughts, but with less hope in God’s purpose, and more thoughts of just walking away in the dead of one night and returning to the comforts of land and language that he knew. He felt bitter and resentful that Yusuf had called him out, and that, deep down, he knew that he was right. That was probably what hurt the most. 

With it came an additional sense of betrayal; he had believed so completely that he was doing the right thing when he left the priesthood to become a knight and travel to Jerusalem. How much of what he knew was based on half-truths and lies? He had seen men, friends even, starve and collapse, and get stabbed and shot and crushed and burned alive. All those deaths were for nothing if they were the ones in the wrong. His heart felt heavy and his mind too full.

A day of walking had passed, and both of their bodies were tired, and they could feel their pace slowing, but they pressed on, aiming for the spot that they had camped in whilst they had been tracking the bandits, before they were weighed down with the liberated treasures and lifelines for the small village in north Syria.

They finally came across the right area; a secluded spot at the foot of a hill in the midst of tall trees, and some rocky outcrops. They settled into another established pattern that they had developed, something that was starting to feel so natural it didn’t require thought or discussion. This was helpful, as Nicolo was still pointedly ignoring Yusuf. Yusuf prayed, and then prepared an area for their small fire, sweeping away any dry brush that could cause their fire to spread, and dampening the ground around it. Meanwhile, Nicolo gathered firewood.

They settled down by the infant fire, eating a small ration of the flatbread that the villagers had given them before they left. Yusuf felt alert, just physically tired. Nicolo felt entirely drained. They remained quiet, listening to the sounds of the night around them and the small crackles and pops of the fire. At first Yusuf wondered what Nicolo was thinking about, but that thought passed and his mind was starting to grow as quiet and peaceful as the night around them. 

“Do you have family?” Nicolo asked without warning, taking Yusuf by surprise. Yusuf measured Nicolo with his gaze before he answered, but Nicolo wouldn’t meet it.

“I do. I have brothers, and a sister,” Yusuf smiled fondly at the thought of his little sister. He rifled through the pack at his side to find the pile of drawings that he had been building, kept safe in a leather binding. He was careful to make sure that Nicolo didn’t see most of the drawings, and handed him one that he had been working on steadily on in recent weeks. It was his sister’s face, in as much detail as he could remember. Nicolo looked at it closely, his expression unreadable. 

“You are talented,” he finally said, handing it back

“It is forbidden,” Yusuf remarked, choosing now to look at the fire, rather than at Nicolo. “We are not allowed to draw that which could have life. According to the Prophet Peace Be Upon Him, I will be punished on the Day of Judgement.”

“And yet you still draw?” Nicolo asked gently. Yusuf took a few seconds to form his response.

“It brings me joy. It always has, even after all of the scoldings as a child. I hope that Allah will see that, and forgive me. Plus, it lets me have a memory of my sister.” 

“We are all imperfect creatures. Forgiveness is all that we can hope for. Do you have a wife?” Nicolo asked, rearranging his long limbs into a more settled position. He had noticed the omission when Yusuf responded about his family. Although the question brought sadness, Yusuf felt a warmth in his chest; he had gotten through to Nicolo.

“I was supposed to be married. She died...from a sickness. I left for Jerusalem shortly after.”

"I'm sorry," Nicolo said quietly.

"It wasn't love, but I think that it would have been with time."

They fell silent for a moment, Nicolo rested back on his elbows and looking at the stars, Yusuf still looking at the fire. Yusuf could feel a lump in his throat that he tried to fight away.

"This morning you said we don’t know what the rules are. What do you think that they are?”

“I don’t know, “ Yusuf said. “You and I...we aren’t dying. We have both been dead and returned. Maybe it only happens when we’re together. Maybe we have a purpose to achieve and then we’ll return to normal.” He paused, closing his eyes. “Maybe this is it.”

“I am afraid,” Nicolo admitted.

“I am too.” 

“What were you thinking...when you stabbed me that first time?”

“Do you really think that it will help you to know?” Yusuf looked back to Nicolo, looking at the dark circles under his eyes, highlighted by the gently dancing flames. Nicolo nodded. “I thought you were nothing. Another invader trying to kill us. I wanted you to suffer. I wanted you all to suffer for what you had done to us”

“Do you regret the lives you took?”

“Yes...and no. Do you?”

“...Yes.” Nicolo looked sad, and Yusuf found that he did not like it. 

“You should rest. I will wake you for the second watch.” 

Nicolo thought that it was too hot for sleep, and was sick of dreaming, but didn’t want to protest and anger Yusuf again. Their conversation whirled around in his mind as he analysed it. He settled down, resting his head back onto his pack. Yusuf was quietly humming tunelessly, and Nicolo found the cloud of sleep creeping over him sooner than he expected.

He found Yusuf in his dreams, but not the one who drove a sword through his stomach. This Yusuf was less real, more ephemeral. He stood in front of Nicolo, reaching out to him. He was speaking, but Nicolo couldn’t hear the words, as though there was a barrier between them. It felt important to Nicolo to cross the barrier but he didn’t know how. As he pushed his hands into the air, it felt like trying to tear through strands of silk, but they clung to his skin like spiders’ webs. He felt a sense of panic rising as the threads wrapped around his hands and arms. He tried to fight away, but instead, Yusuf reached out, and pulled him through. On the other side of the barrier, it was warm and balmy. Yusuf was shirtless, and Nicolo realised that so was he. Nicolo was used to seeing Yusuf without clothes; whenever they stopped by a river or lake they washed, and although they were not shy around each other, Nicolo had never taken time to notice Yusuf. Or so he thought. But here, through the hazy, colourful filter of his dream, Yusuf was beautiful.

Yusuf still had a grip on Nicolo’s arm, using it to keep pulling him closer. Nicolo wanted it to be warm, but it was cold. Yusuf was still saying words, but Nicolo still couldn't hear him. He tried to tell him, but Yusuf was so close now, their chests almost touching and -

Nicolo was dragged back to reality by a shake of his shoulders. He groaned and turned over. His eyes met Yusuf’s and he felt a blush rising in his cheeks. He scrabbled back and away from Yusuf, who looked concerned. 

“You’re safe, it’s ok,” Yusuf tried to reassure him.

“I know,” Nicolo snapped back. Yusuf felt the concern he felt evaporate.

“It’s your watch. Try to not get killed by dogs this time.”

Nicolo cursed Yusuf in his mind for a while after Yusuf had settled himself on the other side of the fire to sleep. 

They reached the village late the next day. The reaction of the people reminded them both why it had been worth it. People who had lost hope had it restored. Yusuf was embraced several times, and people clutched at his hands and arms as they thanked him. They were more cautious around Nicolo, but warmed a little when he was able to awkwardly respond to their thanks. 

They gratefully accepted the offer to stay in the village overnight so that both of them could get a full night’s sleep. Nicolo didn’t want to sleep though. He put his pack in the tent they offered them, and watched as Yusuf, smiling contentedly, got comfy on the cot. Nicolo resented him so much in that moment. Instead of settling down in the cot next to Yusuf, he retreated out of the tent, and sat crossed-legged outside in the sweltering night. He felt sick with exhaustion, and he could feel it through his whole body. He didn’t want to sleep though. He didn’t want to dream of the mysterious women, or of the deaths he had suffered, or the lives he had taken, or the new disturbing addition of shirtless, beautiful Yusuf. Nicolo kicked at the dirt in frustration. 

He could feel a black hole opening in his chest, and he was descending into it.


	8. Chapter 8

“I have a - a…” Yusuf cursed in Arabic when he couldn’t think of the right word. He knew that Nicolo had taught it to him, but it couldn’t draw it to the front of his mind. His hands tried to gesture the concept, but it was too abstract. Nicolo just looked up at him blankly. He finally made a disgruntled noise and gave up. He was trying to say gift, but he would have to do without. “Come with me?” 

“Where?” Nicolo asked, because it amused him when Yusuf looked stressed. He only got a moment of satisfaction before Yusuf realised what he was doing and glared at him. He mentally chuckled to himself and heaved up to stand in acceptance of Yusuf’s request. His body felt tired and heavy, and each movement felt like a struggle. He could feel the fog of lack of sleep licking like flames at the edges of his awareness.

Nicolo was grateful to be back in a city again. The noise and bustling gave his mind something to think about other than his own thoughts. He let Yusuf lead him through the streets, he knew that Yusuf was trying to teach him more words as they walked, but there was too much to take in to pay close attention. He observed the colours and the people, and it brought the smallest of smiles to his face.

Yusuf finally came to a stop outside a building, gesturing as though to present it to Nicolo.

“What is it?” Nicolo asked. 

“A church.”

"You found me a church?"

"Yes. You need to have a conversation with Allah," Yusuf told him, gently ushering him towards the door.

"God," Nicolo corrected, absentmindedly. He was taking in the building. It was different from his church, but he knew that shouldn't surprise him. It did mean that he didn't feel drawn to it in the same way. It didn’t give him the sense of something greater, or of a space that was holy.

"Sure," Yusuf rolled his eyes. "Go."

Nicolo hesitated, his heart suddenly beating hard in his chest, disturbing the pit of butterflies that fluttered through him, making him feel weak and shaky. He felt rooted to the spot.

Yusuf watched Nicolo's face carefully. He could see the uncertainty etched across it. He placed a hand on his own heart, trust me, and gave Nicolo another encouraging nudge. This seemed to break the hold on Nicolo. He took a deep breath, as though to steady himself, and stepped up to the door.

Inside didn't look like the churches Nicolo knew either. He sat down towards the back, taking it all in. He couldn't sense God there at all. Then he scolded himself for being foolish. God was everywhere, and although this place was different, he could recognise the familiar markers of his faith. He took another look around to make sure there was no one else there.

“Lord...Father…” he hesitated, feeling strangely foolish. He used to be able to do this so easily. “I don’t understand why you have done this to me. Am I being punished? Why have I not earned salvation?” He took a shaky breath, clutching his hands together, despite their clamminess. “Why do I not get to see paradise? I came here to fight for you, for your people. And you have forsaken me. Am I in hell? Why me? I have lived my life for you. I thought that I lived a good life.” He paused, closing his eyes. “And why him?”

No answers came, although Nicolo waited for them. As he waited, he grew bitter again. His friends and brothers had died and gone to heaven, and yet he was forced to remain. Eventually he grew tired of the farce. He stood and gave the cross on the altar a final, resentful glance.

He expected to have to find his own way back to the guest house that they had been staying in. He thought it must have been a few hours that he had been sitting, thinking. And yet, when he stepped into the light, and his eyes adjusted, there was Yusuf, across the street, leaning against a wall, as though it had only been a few minutes, rather than hours. Nicolo felt a strange squeezing sensation in his chest. 

“Did you get your answers?” Yusuf asked, standing up straight and measuring Nicolo with a look. He didn’t feel optimistic about the expression on Nicolo’s face. Yusuf had really thought this would help Nicolo, but apparently it hadn’t. “I’m sorry. I thought it would help.” 

Nicolo didn’t say anything in response. He didn’t say anything on the walk back to the guest house. He didn’t say anything when they reached their room. Yusuf felt the weight of every moment of silence, every glimpse of the pain and vulnerability he saw in Nicolo's expression. He didn’t completely understand why it made him feel things so strongly, but it trusted that it was part of their story, and that he was meant to feel this way.

“Enough. Talk to me. Please.”

“No.” Nicolo stood in the middle of the room, looking lost in the middle of the room, as though it was the size of a whole ocean. “No. I’m going home.”

“Nicolo, we don’t know what that will mean.”

“I don’t care! I don’t care if I drop dead a mile away from you! I don’t need you, and I don’t want you to need me. I am done with you.” 

“I am sorry, I thought that letting you connect with Al- God- would help,” Yusuf reached out, but Nicolo flinched away, wrapping his arms around his chest. Yusuf took a few steps back again.

“No, no. I am forsaken. I am damned.”  
“There is a plan. There is a higher purpose to this.” Yusuf knew that he was trying to convince himself as much as Nicolo.

“What do you know? You did this. You started this. You killed me. Why am I still with you? What did you do to me? What did you do to me?!”

Nicolo’s voice was a desperate yell now. He was so angry, so upset, so tired. So done. It was all too much, and he wasn’t built for it. He couldn’t do it. His breathing was fast and ragged, his fists clenched tightly, his whole body ready to collapse in on itself, the weight of everything pulling his insides into tight, crushing knots. 

The worst part of all of this was Yusuf.

He had adapted so well. He just saw not dying as a gift, an opportunity, and had carried on. Even not hating each other had seemed to come easier to Yusuf. The way that Yusuf was looking at him now made Nicolo feel worse. It wasn’t even pity, it was like he really cared, like he really cared. And yet, still in his nightmares, Yusuf’s face was a pit of rage and hatred as they murdered each other. Nicolo would never forget that face.

Yusuf watched Nicolo spiral, and he did care. He had been afraid since the moment the Christians had breached Jersulem’s walls. Here they were, months later, and he was still afraid. But they had each other, they needed to have each other. He had seen it more with each passing day. Each battle they fought. Each time Nicolo taught him something, or made him laugh. He had been seeing Nicolo. He had once looked Nicolo in the eye, and told himself that he had not seen a soul. He now understood that that was far from the truth. He was just as scared as he was, and he was hurting, and he wasn’t processing.

As silence fell, the emotion between them felt thick and tangible, the culmination of months of pain and fear. Nicolo’s eyes looked wild and desperate, and Yusuf hated it. He took a tentative step closer, and then another, placed one hand on his heart, and when he could reach, the other on Nicolo’s. Trust me. Trust us. Nicolo stilled, their eyes meeting. Time slowed. Time stopped. The world outside fell away. Yusuf’s heart felt like it was going to beat through his chest, and there was a sensation in his throat that he hadn’t experienced before. Not quite fear, more like nervous anticipation. He could feel Nicolo’s chest move under his hand with each short breath. Nicolo swallowed nervously, and found himself leaning closer. There was a question in both of their eyes. And suddenly, time wasn’t stopped anymore.

Their lips crashed together in a deep, urgent kiss, neither sure who had moved first, nor sure if they cared. It was clumsy, but that didn’t matter either. As they kissed, Nicolo wanted to be angry, he wanted to be able rage, to push Yusuf away, but he couldn’t, because he wasn’t angry. 

He felt safe. Whole.

His hands grabbed Yusuf’s waist, grappling to reach under his shirt, pulling their bodies closer together, and Yusuf’s hands went to Nicolo’s cheeks, but quickly moved on to tangle in his hair. The sensation surprised a small moan from Nicolo. They gripped each other tightly, drawing strength from each other. Yusuf's skin was warm and soft under Nicolo’s hands. Yusuf could feel himself melting under Nicolo’s touch, he was lost in the kiss, in the sensation. 

Nicolo pulled back first, breath shallow in a different way. There were a thousand things that Yusuf wanted to say to Nicolo, but he didn’t know the words. Nicolo’s brain had stalled completely, he couldn’t form a thought. He stuttered, and stumbled away from Yusuf’s grasp. Their eyes held for a moment longer, and then Nicolo quickly turned, and left. 

Yusuf slumped, his whole body still alight, the taste of Nicolo still on his lips, his hands feeling so empty now. 

He didn’t hesitate for long, he knew that he needed to follow Nicolo, to not let him walk away. But by the time he reached outside, Nicolo was already out of sight.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am truly sorry for the delay. I hate being an infrequent updater. And I still love everyone who has read and shared appreciation in any way. Life in the last four weeks has been as mad as it has ever been, but now it is passing, and now I want to move these two fools story on more than anything. 
> 
> <3

What could he do now but wait and worry?

Yusuf had tried to search for Nicolo, but with no luck, and as the night set in further, he decided to return to the room that he shared with Nicolo and hoped that he would return to him. But even as he did that, he felt a twinge of guilt that he wasn't doing more to find Nicolo, who was alone in a city, and a culture, that he didn't know. 

Back in their room, Yusuf found himself pacing, six steps back and forth between the walls of the small space, but this only seemed to increase his anxiety, so he eventually retired to sit with his back against the wall, knees up, arms resting on them, fingers fidgeting instead. He looked through the window to the stars high above them, and wondered where Nicolo was. What was he thinking about at that moment? What was going on in the mess of Nicolo's mind?

Yusuf was no fool. There was something to this. 

If he hadn't been sure before, that kiss had affirmed it. Yusuf felt as though a fire had been ignited in his soul, and he could still feel the warmth of it burning, despite the worry, and the guilt, and the pain that he felt when Nicolo walked out on him. 

Minutes passing felt like hours. Yusuf replayed the kiss in his mind a hundred times over, thinking about the passion of it, but also whether there was anything he could have done to stop Nicolo walking away. Eventually he knew he had to stop himself, because he was going to drive himself crazy one way or another. Instead, he found his mind going back to that fateful day in Jerusalem. He thought about the choking, thick smoke, and the putrid smell of burning and death, and the fear that permeated his every thought that day. He thought about the sensation of lurching back to life in that sickening mix, and taking the same man's life over and over again. He thought of bones breaking and healing, and blood, more blood than should ever be possible. 

And he thought about how it was Nicolo who had seen sense and doused their rage, when Yusuf would have just kept killing. Nicolo had gripped him, and not sharing any language, had managed to get Yusuf to stop, and to leave the city with him. It was like Yusuf knew then that he was meant to follow Nicolo, that something in his soul had foreseen where they would be now. Maybe beyond. He prayed to Allah that there would be a beyond.

That wasn't to say that Yusuf hadn't still felt a murderous rage at this Christian who had invaded their cities, and then managed to convince Yusuf to flee the defence. But for him that had dissipated...mostly. 

Plus, they had heard stories on the road of what had happened in Jerusalem that night - the slaughter that had taken place. A slaughter that Yusuf would have likely survived over and over again, given his new ability to live, but at what cost? Yusuf dreaded to think what would have happened to him if he had stayed, and the Christians were only able to take him alive. 

This turned Yusuf's thoughts back to the pain that Nicolo had been in before they kissed, and what had led to that moment. Of course Yusuf had seen that Nicolo wasn't well, and that he was suffering. He tried to think of what else he could have done to help, as though feeding his own guilt, but he knew it wouldn't have mattered anyway. Nicolo didn't trust him. He didn't want to be with him. 

Yusuf wondered about the women in their dreams. They were clearly from different ethnic backgrounds, and they clearly had a deep love and affection for each other. He wondered how their story happened, how they found each other, and learned to communicate. How did they come to trust each other? To...love?

He sighed, and thumped his head back against the wall. He really hated this. He just wanted a chance to make things right. What if Nicolo had walked away for good?

Yusuf's hope diminished more and more throughout the night, as he forced himself to stay awake - so that Nicolo would know that he cared, if he returned. As the light of dawn began to awaken the sky, and the city, Yusuf felt his heart sink further. What would he do now? After everything that had happened, everything that he had seen and done, he did not think that he could return home. 

He had been thinking for such a long time, that he found himself in an almost meditative state, focusing on what his brain needed to think, and ignoring the pain creeping into his body from sitting for such a long time. When Nicolo suddenly walked into the room, it startled him, and he scrambled ungracefully to his feet, resisting the urge to moan as his body complained. 

Nicolo stood just inside the doorway, his gaze avoiding Yusuf's face. Yusuf didn't know what to say, or whether to say anything. Nicolo looked unharmed, but then he would. His face, however, spoke volumes; it was thin, and haunted, and his eyes showed every measure of exhaustion. Each breath he took showed in his shoulders. Yusuf found himself wanting to take the pain away, but remained rooted to the spot. 

"Nico..." he eventually said quietly, desperate to break the silence. He tried to read the reaction in Nicolo's body language, but there was none. He wished he knew what Nicolo was thinking, what decisions were racing through his mind in the same way. He took a small step forward, but Nicolo shook his head, and he stopped. 

"We walk. And we help," Nicolo finally said, eyes falling to their swords, each positioned by their respective bed-rolls. "That is all." 

Although Yusuf felt pain that Nicolo clearly didn't feel the same way that he did, he felt relief that the Christian did not want to leave him yet. He breathed out and nodded, making their sign of trust partly from instinct, and partly to let Nicolo know that he respected the unspoken which he was asking for. That kiss would be the only one.

Nicolo recognised this, and allowed himself a small, grateful smile, but still couldn't find the power to look at Yusuf's face. He was happy that the...matter...had gone unacknowledged. He wanted to pretend that it hadn't happened, so that he could ignore all the feelings that the kiss had sparked inside of him. As long as it went unacknowledged, then he could pretend that he hadn't spent all night thinking about it. 

He still wasn't sure how to move on from this moment, and was relieved when Yusuf suggested that they train in the stable yard outside. Although his body and his mind felt wrecked, the familiar nature of their training seemed inviting. He crossed the room to pick up his sword, hoping that the way he kept space as he moved around Yusuf wasn't too obvious. He wanted to make it clear that today they would train with swords - knives, hand-to-hand, wrestling, all brought them into close contact, and Nicolo wanted to keep Yusuf at as much of a distance as he could. 

They started their drills in the early morning light, and continued to practice movements that were now smooth and natural as the air around them began to heat. Nicolo found himself working harder than normal, trying to release the built up frustration and rage. And he noticed Yusuf trying to match his energy. 

Their efforts, in a slightly more public location than they were used to, soon drew a crowd of fascinated children. One boy in particular seemed enthralled. He stood on the lower rung of the fence that surrounded the stable yard, leaning his body across the fence to watch as closely as he could. Nicolo noticed him, and found another involuntary smile, and when he turned back to Yusuf, he noticed a matching expression. Their eyes met for just a moment, a passing accident, and Nicolo felt emotions explode in his chest once again. He turned away to fix his boots before they began sparring, wiping the sweat from his brow as the sun made its presence known. 

He turned back to a sight that almost made his knees weak. The sun shone down on Yusuf, highlighting the mischief in his eyes as he played up to the children, and his skin, of which there was more on show than there had been a minute ago. Yusuf had shrugged off his jacket and rolled his sleeves up. The moment seemed to still as he smiled, his forearms tensed as he gripped and moved his sword through the air. Where Nicolo felt hot and uncomfortable from the sweat, it seemed to make Yusuf shine. Nicolo shook the thought away, and took up a prepared stance. 

Their sparring seemed to come with more intensity than normal, although they were more careful to avoid the cuts and swipes that normally left healing cuts all over their bodies. Yusuf seemed to be trying to meet his gaze on purpose as they danced in and out from each other, swords meeting with sharp noises as neither won an advantage. 

"Where did you go?" Yusuf asked breathlessly, pulling his sword away from a parry and into a slicing motion that threatened to slice Nicolo's left side open. He stumbled back, and brought his sword across the front of his body to deflect the blade away, shifting his weight forward again to reverse the motion of his own sword, trying to drive the tip in between Yusuf's ribs. Maybe they were getting less careful to hide their secret. 

"I walked. Needed air," Nicolo gasped, surprised as Yusuf just to push his sword away with the flat of his hand, which meant that Nicolo's momentum didn't change, and in his surprise, found himself stumbling towards Yusuf. Yusuf, grinning, side-stepped enough to trip Nicolo up, and send him sprawling to the floor. Yusuf wasn't ashamed to admit to himself that he was punishing Nicolo for walking away. 

"I needed you," he found himself admitting before he could stop himself, resting his blade against Nicolo's throat. They were both vaguely aware of children whooping and cheering in the background, but as their chests heaved and their bodies stilled, they both were focused on the familiar energy building between them. Nicolo felt intense hatred that Yusuf had not only won, but had put him in a position where Yusuf held such power, standing over him, blocking out the sun, steel against his skin.

He felt intense hatred that he wanted Yusuf with every part of his being. He wanted to relieve the feeling of Yusuf's hands in his hair, the feeling of his hips beneath his hands, skin touching, their bodies close and desperate and wanting. That kiss had been a tidal wave, washing away in that moment everything bad and negative in his mind. 

The moment created such hatred that Nicolo didn't know what to do with himself, even as Yusuf removed the blade from his throat. He stepped away and offered a hand to Nicolo. Nicolo didn't know whether to take it or not. He wanted to spit at it, slap it away, tackle Yusuf to the ground and slash at his body, his neck, his face. His beautiful face. The hate felt so hot that it burnt his inside chest, turning his bones to ash. 

Instead, before his brain could finish thinking, he slipped his hand in the offered one, feeling it close around his, electricity coursing through his arm. Yusuf hauled him to his feet and for a moment they were close again, chests almost touching. Yusuf gently bit his bottom lip and Nicolo wondered whether Yusuf could see it on his face that the action sent his mind further into overdrive. 

He wasn't sure what to do, how to make the feelings go away, so he snatched his hand away, and turned his back on Yusuf.


End file.
